Proposition
by Team Jem Carstairs
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand the appeal of sex, so who better to teach him than his only friend, John Watson? Except that John just might be in love with him... *Now a two-shot*
1. Curiosity

**Hey, y'all! Here's some good, healthy smut for ya. Don't know what else to say, really, just... enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: All credit to Mofftiss for creating it, Benedict Cumberbatch for being so damn *sexy*, and Martin Freeman for being absolutely adorable.**

John Watson was a good friend. Really, he was. It wasn't easy to befriend Sherlock Holmes, much less _stay_ his friend, but he managed. Something about the man was intoxicating, irresistible. He had to be with him. Sherlock, however, did not seem to feel the same. Sure, John knew he cared, at least a little, but it wasn't like he was openly lauding John as a friend. John couldn't have expected that, it just wasn't in Sherlock's nature.

Which was why he couldn't understand Sherlock's aversion to his, John's, dating. What did it matter? If they didn't have a case, Sherlock didn't seem to care if John was around or not, so why shouldn't he meet people, have a little fun? He didn't have to be as reclusive and antisocial as his flat mate.

Of course, it wasn't entirely the path he wanted to take. He quite liked the girls he met, that was true, but there wasn't a date he went on, a kiss he stole or bed he shared that didn't remind him of the dark-haired detective. Despite frequent protestations to the contrary, John began to wonder if he really was gay, or if it was only for Sherlock he held affection.

Still, he knew his partner was asexual at best– at least that was how it seemed– so he figured it was a no go. Even Mycroft knew– assumed– his brother had no interest in such a mundane pursuit as sex.

Sometimes John wondered if that wasn't for the best. He was on a date, sort of, having taken a girl back to the flat after dinner. She was interesting, Emma was, all auburn curls and fierce personality. She was a direct opposite of Sherlock, which he tried not to imagine was the reason he chose her. She was the very picture of artistic, slim artist's hands itching to sketch.

"I'd like to sketch you sometime," she said in her soft voice. "You and your Sherlock. Two halves to the same whole."

"Interesting position to take as my date," John deflected. "I'm not gay, you know."

"I know. Well, I think. Anyway, I just mean you complement each other beautifully. He's black and white, ice and night sky. _You_, you're all warmth and fire, with the pink tones in your skin and your blonde hair…"

He looked into her bright, animated face and slowly smiled, effectively causing her to stumble into silence. There was a stunned moment where Emma couldn't move and John _didn't_ move, but when it ended, it ended with a bang. They dove forward from their respective positions on the couch and crushed themselves together, open mouth to open mouth, hands roaming and bodies clicking into place. John cradled her face with one hand, the other skimming her waist–

The door opened with a _bang_. John and Emma were too wrapped up in each other to notice, but the tall, thin man in the doorway looked at them in displeasure. "This is not what I imagined coming home to," Sherlock grumbled.

At the sound of his voice, John tore himself away. "Sh-Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were out!"

"I was. And now I'm back. You were alone when I left, weren't you?"

"Yes, but–" John started before Emma jumped in.

"The famous, or should I say _infamous_ Mr. Holmes. Pleased to meet you, the name's Emma." She held out a hand for him to shake, but he just ducked around her to peer inside the gaping mouth of her purse.

"Pencils and a small sketchbook, means you're an artist. Copy of Dante's _Inferno,_ probably to look impressive rather than reading it purely out of interest. Pair of glasses but no case, either you're financially secure enough to not mind if something should happen to them or they're just for show, most likely to look more intelligent or fit the bill of a stereotypical art student. Your bag seems quite empty, so either you're a neat person who doesn't need much– which seems doubtful– or you cleaned it out of all objectionable objects before meeting Watson here. Which of course raises the question of what you're trying to hide." He looked up. "This isn't difficult, John. Do you think things through before you do them, or just rely purely on instinct?"

"I think you'd better go," John whispered to Emma, who nodded. She snatched up her bag, blushing and unable to look at Sherlock, before quickly leaving the flat. When the door was shut, John turned to his friend.

"I was _busy,_ you know. You needn't have burst in on us like that."

"How was I to know you were doing anything but reading the paper and having a cup of tea? You didn't tell me you had a courtesan–"

"Courtesan? What _century_ am I in? She's not a whore, Sherlock, she's a girl. You know I date."

"Date." Sherlock repeated the word like it disgusted him, which it probably did. "I can't understand the appeal it has for you. Frankly John, you're spending lots of time lately with people who aren't _me_, which is not something I can condone. These people you seem to like so much, like this empty-headed girl who just left, they aren't as brilliant as I am. They can't compare to me. What appeal do they hold?"

"I think not being you is enough, isn't it?" John said coldly. He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and closed his eyes. "Look, Sherlock. It's easier being with them than with you. Can you imagine why?"

The other man blinked. "No, not at all."

"Then we have nothing more to say to one another, do we?" John started towards his bedroom. "After all, if you can't understand this most basic part of me, what can you say to make it all right?"

He strode out, slamming his door, leaving a thoroughly bewildered Sherlock standing frozen, staring at the space John was just occupying. "John?" he asked hesitantly, and when he received no answer, he shook his head as though to clear it.

**Later That Evening**

John sat on his bed, wondering exactly where he went wrong. Had he gone wrong? Maybe there was never a chance… A soft knock interrupted his musings.

"John?" Sherlock's voice came through the door, sounding uncharacteristically humble. "John, please let me in."

"Just come in. Nothing stopped you before." John winced at the harshness in his own voice as the door swung open. The detective shut it behind him and moved to sit beside John on the bed.

"You told me we needn't be… friends… if I didn't understand the most basic part of you. I may not know what that is, but I'm going to say it has to do with your compulsive need to be in a relationship. I don't know all that much about personal feelings, you know I find it a tremendous waste of time, but I think… I think I should like to try, if it means keeping your companionship. This is not something I can learn from research." His lovely blue-green eyes searched out the good doctor's dark brown ones.

"It pains you to admit helplessness, doesn't it?" John laughed.

Sherlock scowled. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Well, what do you want me to do? What do you want to know?"

"Why do people do it? Why do you go through so much, risk so much, waste so much time, just for sex? For love?"

John sighed. "Well, those are two different things. For sex, it's, you know, a biological need. I'm sure even _you_ know what I mean. For love, it's… well, you're trying to find your other half– better half, even. You're trying to find another person who completes you, who can make you laugh even when you're upset, who needs you as much as you need them."

"And what do you do when you find this person?"

"I dunno, Sherlock. Kiss them, maybe. I can't really answer that."

Sherlock went silent for a moment. John knew his mind was racing, touching on a thousand possibilities he, John, couldn't begin to understand. "John?"

"Hm?"

"I think I should like you to kiss me."

John choked. "What the…? Sherlock, you haven't been drinking, have you?"

"Of course not," he replied, unruffled. "I'm merely following your logical train of thought. If one has these feelings one acts on them accordingly. I may not be an expert on personal relationships, but even I know you need me." He hesitated. "My cases would be difficult without you. You can talk to people when I cannot. As much as I detest the thought, I believe I need you."

"Sherlock, that doesn't necessarily mean _love_. It's just an example."

"Do you not wish to kiss me?"

"That's… that's not what I'm saying, I just…"

"So you _do _want to kiss me." He leaned in, eyes narrowing, examining his flat mate's face. "Pupils dilated, flushed hue, labored breathing, lips slightly parted. That indicates sexual arousal."

"Jesus, Sherlock…"

"You keep saying my name, is that significant?"

"Is it?"

Blink. "I don't know, that's why I asked. Why I ask if I knew?"

John sighed. "You're supposed to just _know_ with these things, Holmes."

"Oh, now it's just Holmes? Do I have to just kiss you myself?"

"That's not– mmph!" John started to protest, but Sherlock swooped in like the raven he resembled and kissed him swiftly. Their lips were locked together, Sherlock's eyes closed and John's wide with surprise. Long, slender violinist's fingers stroked his cheek and his mouth slipped open. Then, just as suddenly as he went in, Sherlock pulled back.

"Interesting," he said in a perfectly normal voice while John gasped for breath. "You claim to be straight, you were on a date with a girl not four hours ago, and yet you kissed me back."

"Bloody _hell_," John panted. "Who taught you to kiss like that?"

"I thought you wanted me to kiss you."

"Didn't expect to get _snogged_, though…" He took a few deep breaths, though his heart rate refused to return to normal. "Can– can we do that again?"

"Interesting," Sherlock repeated slowly, almost smiling, something that disconcerted John. "Why me?"

"W-what do you–"

"I wouldn't bother keeping up the pretext, John. It has to come to my attention that you have… feelings for me."

John swallowed. "How did you find out?" he whispered.

"I borrowed your laptop. It was rather foolish of you to have written it down, that you loved me. Still, it does make things quite clear now, doesn't it?"

"I really need to teach you the meaning of personal space," John muttered.

"What sort of detective would I be if I respected everyone's privacy? Besides, you haven't even heard my proposition."

_Proposition._ It conjured up all sorts of images for John, which grew increasingly less innocent and caused a stirring in his trousers he tried to ignore. "What's that, then?"

"_You_ have feelings for me, _you're_ the one who understands relationships and… feelings… and things. _I_ regrettably can't learn this from the internet and I think it could only enhance my knowledge of the world should I engage in some sort of physical activity of this nature."

"You want… sex." _I wasn't far off with proposition, then, was I?_

"I thought I made that quite clear."

"Sex."

"Yes."

"With me."

"I… I trust you, John. Might as well." He shrugged, his eyelashes casting shadows over his ridiculously high cheekbones. "So what do you say?"

Instead of answering, John pulled his jumper and t-shirt over his head. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who hurriedly started removing layers of clothing. He only got as far as being bare-chested before John took his face in his hands and kissed him, hard. He slowly leaned back until he was flat on the bed, John crawling over him to continue the kiss, one knee planted between Sherlock's legs.

A sudden move caused the knee to nudge the detective's groin. He jerked and let out the barest trace of a groan. John grinned to feel the hard length under the fabric of his pants. "I guess you are into it, aren't you?" he murmured. He spread a hand over the younger man's chest. "Blimey, you're skinny. Hug you and I'd get a paper cut."

"It isn't kind to tease, John," Sherlock replied as the hand dipped lower, fooling with his zipper. "How long is this going to take?"

"That depends. How long do you _want_ it to take?"

"Not long. I have things to do."

John rolled his eyes. "All right, Sherlock. Help me out, then." He stood up and slid off his trousers, waiting for Sherlock to do the same. When they were sufficiently naked, they got back into bed and fell back together, snogging and touching bare skin. Sherlock seemed reluctant to move below the belt, but John dove headfirst into it, taking Sherlock's cock in hand and stroking it. Sherlock let out a hiss.

"_Get on with it!"_

"All right, all right! I'm going! Here, you lie down," John ordered shakily. Sherlock obeyed, his dark curls tumbling over his forehead, pale skin nearly glowing. The doctor nudged his thighs apart and knelt between them.

"Here, spread your legs a little more. Perfect." He stuck his fingers in his own mouth before slipping one into Sherlock. He added another, scissoring them to prepare the man a little more. Another hiss.

"Tell me if it hurts," John instructed. Sherlock just closed his eyes as a third finger slid in. When he was satisfied he was ready, John lined up his cock.

"Are you sure about this?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and fixed on John's concerned, ruddy face. "Would I still be here if I wasn't?"

"Curiosity is your great sin," he conceded.

"Sin, no. Weakness, perhaps. You know, you seem very sure of yourself. How often have you done this? What _do_ you look up on that laptop of yours?"

"_You_ invaded my privacy, you should know."

"You cleared your internet history."

"All right, _no_, I've never done this before. I've never wanted to do this before, not with anyone but you. Now if you don't mind…" He gestured between their legs, where both of them were aching for release. Sherlock gave him a quick nod, and they joined. John moaned at the tight heat, while Sherlock hiccoughed in surprise and pain. They remained in stasis for what seemed like hours but was probably only a minute or two before Sherlock bucked his hips forward.

He found he was rather enjoying this sensation, once the pain ebbed away. No, it wasn't the same high he got from playing violin or deducing, but it _almost_ began to make sense, why people went through so much for sex. He was starting to understand, and though he would never admit it, he quite liked being with John. He was kind and patient, and though Sherlock Holmes would rarely deign to opine on such things (and would certainly never admit he did), he was an odd sort of attractive. His eyes were a warm shade of brown, his blonde hair was slightly tousled…

A sharp jolt of lightning between his legs roughly tore him from his reverie. He gasped and arched his spine as it happened again, John's cock battering a sweet spot deep in his body. "W-what's that!" he cried. It was a shocking but incredibly pleasant feeling.

John chuckled, something that irritated Sherlock. He did not like being laughed at for a legitimate question, or what he considered to be one. He was unskilled in the ways of physical love (or any sort of love other than "love of solitude", "love of knowledge", and "love of drugs"), which John knew, but still he laughed! "Don't _laugh_ at me," Sherlock said stiffly.

"I'm not laughing _at_ you, just sort of… _because of_ you. It's pleasure, don't you know what that is?" John smiled very sweetly, the kind of smile Sherlock supposed lovers would share. He didn't know.

"Of course I– _Oh,_ but that feels– _Oh_," he moaned, carding his hands through John's hair and tugging the ash-blonde strands. "Do that again."

John thrust slower, deeper, taking care to brush Sherlock's prostrate every time. The usually unfazed detective was reduced to a trembling, writhing, moaning pile of need and arousal. "Harder, John," he yelped.

John half-smiled but complied, feeling his release coming nearer. He slipped his hand between their bodies to grip Sherlock's cock. "Come on, come on," he pleaded under his breath.

"J-John," he choked. "I– I'm going to–"

"That's fine, trust me!" John cried, orgasm hitting him hard. Sherlock couldn't help but follow, barely making a sound but going cross-eyed with bliss. John pulled out and collapsed at Sherlock's side, sighing in pleasure and relief. "Well? What do you think?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his lean-muscled pale chest heaving. "I think I have a much better understanding of the appeal sex has for people."

Quiet. "What about for me?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I don't know, what about you?"

John sighed again. It seemed he did a lot of sighing around Sherlock. "Just… You said you know how I feel about you, and now after this… Well, this is how people connect with one another, Sherlock. This has to have changed something, I think. What do you think?"

"I think…" There was silence, as though he really was considering it. "You're the only friend I have. You know that, right?"

"Yes, I know that. Everyone knows that. What does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock stood up and grabbed his shirt, using it to wipe the come from his belly. "This has to have changed something, you said. Well, I don't respond well to change. I– You're my only friend," he repeated. "I can't lose you, too." He gathered the rest of his clothing and left without another word.

John groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his face in a pillow. "Now I've done it," he lamented. "I've ruined it. He knows but doesn't feel the same. Nothing's changed. What have I got to lose?"

_You still can lose him, you know,_ he thought.

_No, no, I've already lost him!_

_He willingly chose to shag you because he was "curious". Who's to say he won't be curious again?_

_Doesn't matter what he decides in the future,_ he decided. _I have lost everything. Gambled, risked, and lost. The gambler is always ruined._

_I have lost everything._

**Note: I apologize if this is terribly OOC. I've, er, never seen Sherlock. Just gifs and pictures on Tumblr. I beg you to tell me if this is awful. I beg you. Of course, if it's not, you can tell me that too. I won't mind. Please review either way!**_  
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	2. Sonata

**Hey, guys, I know I *said* this was a one-shot... But it isn't, not anymore. But this is the end, I mean it! I know you were probably hoping I would relieve the angsty ending to part 1, but anyone who knows me knows that ain't happening. SO, all in all, that's the gist of it. Please please review!**

**Disclaimer: Moffat and Gatiss, all hail. {I have actually seen series 1 of Sherlock now, guys). Also, thanks to the creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, because I've started reading him now too.**

It was the middle of the night. It wasn't particularly quiet or dark, London being such a bustling hub of _life_, but the clouds obscured the stars and cast gloomy shadows over 221b Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes stood facing the window in his day clothes of black trousers and a purple silk shirt, clutching his violin. He drew the bow across it slowly, wringing a high, haunting note from it that hovered in the warm air. He did it again, closing his eyes and focusing on the sound vibrating through the wood.

_Vibrato_, a voice whispered in his mind. It was called _vibrato_, what he was doing. He remembered only a few hours before, in John's bedroom, the _vibrato_ of the ex-army doctor's voice catching in his throat. Was it _vibrato_ or _tremolo_? No, he decided, a series of sharp sawing motions pulling a trembling series of notes out of the instrument. He had played _tremolo_ in the softness of John's mouth, drawing his tongue along the strings of John's self-control and producing a trembling mess.

That was what they had been doing, he decided. Making music. Not _having sex_ or _making love_, or those debauched terms like _banging_ or _shagging_. Making music. They engaged in a two-part harmony, his body doing two-four time while his brain only pulled an eight-four, John's moans _forte_, then _fortissimo_, their hearts beating staccato, their melody soaring until it reached _crescendo_ at the end.

One note was a beginning, but two notes, that was a song. If only Sherlock understood John the way he did the violin, knew how to pluck and stroke him, to coax forth controlled chaos, perhaps things would have been different. As it was…

He heard John moving about in the other room but ignored him, finally tearing a song from his violin, furiously passionate, almost angry. _Why must you ruin everything?_ he thought. _With your foolish emotions, why do you ruin everything?_

"_Sherlock!"_ John's voice cut through, his hand resting on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock realized he had spoken aloud through the din of the music.

He dropped the bow and lowered the violin, casting his eyes down. "It wasn't what I wanted. The music–"

"I hope it wasn't what you wanted. It sounded like a wailing cat." John sounded exhausted, bone-tired, as though he hadn't slept for days. It occurred to Sherlock that it wasn't only geniuses kept awake with their thoughts. "It's three in the morning, you'll wake Mrs. Hudson. You can't find a quieter hobby?"

"The violin isn't a _hobby_," Sherlock amended irritably as he set the instrument down. "I play because it helps me think. I need to think right now, after… everything."

"Really? I'm trying to _forget_ everything." Sherlock whirled around to face his flat mate. It was rare that the good doctor showed his age, but there it was, sorrow and pain and _age_ etched all over his face. Low light softened the lines of his face further while somehow brightening the ash-blonde silk of his hair. His eyes glinted a warm brown beneath his nearly closed lids. For once the great Sherlock Holmes had no deductions to make.

When John first confessed his feelings– or rather, when Sherlock figured it out– the detective locked himself in the bathroom and stared into the mirror, trying to understand _why_. He supposed he could accept the attraction held for his dark curls, blue-green eyes, and porcelain skin, but what did John see in the angle of his cheekbones, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks, the unusually defined cupid's bow of his mouth?

He knew his _brain_ was extraordinary, yes, his eyes that saw so much, but what about his face was appealing? He couldn't deny there was an element of physical attraction– John was aroused by the thought of him and had once moaned Sherlock's name when he thought the younger man couldn't hear him getting off.

Emotion like this confused Sherlock. It wasn't that he didn't feel, of course he did, he just often dismissed it as irrelevant. Love was _boring_ but John wasn't. He might not have the unquestionable brilliance of his companion, but his courage and strength were admirable, and although he too often concerned himself with trivial matters, he was also willing to perform mundane tasks such as fetching milk and paying the rent.

All of this went through Sherlock's mind in mere seconds. He glanced to the side, where his and John's shadows lay. His own was tall and ribbon-slim, a willowy caricature. John's was shorter and stockier, but the two seemed _right_ next to one another. "John… I never wanted this…" His voice was a husky baritone, unexpectedly pleading.

"Sherlock, don't, please. I don't want to have this conversation. All you can do is apologize for not feeling the same, and I don't want to hear that."

"What do you want to hear?"

"Hopefully, _not_ your violin. I was sleeping–"

"You were not. You've got dark patches under your eyes from lack of rest, probably a few days worth. Your voice is not in any way clouded with sleep, and–"

"Stop it!" John shouted, completely disregarding the "You'll wake Mrs. Hudson" argument. "I'm sick of you deducing me! Can't you just leave me be, just once? I'm begging you, stop." The last part came out in a whisper.

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes darting from the flush of John's cheeks to the sharp rise and fall of his chest to the shine in his eyes, and despite the fact that John asked him to stop deducing, he couldn't help but realize John was trying not to cry. He must have been genuinely hurt. "I can't imagine how this…"

"No, you can't. The older man turned abruptly away, taking a deep shuddering breath. "It's like being tortured. Everywhere I go, there's something to remind me of you. Every night you're the last thing that crosses my mind, and every morning there's a blissful second of _nothing _before I hear you, or see you, or just plain remember you, and then it all comes back. It's like I'm bleeding to death internally, being with you, but I can't leave because it hurts even more to be without you."

Sherlock swallowed. He had asked John before what being in love felt like, and thought that maybe, just maybe, he was more _human_ than anyone suspected. But this put a new spin on things. He ought to have assumed even love wasn't this perfect, easy path; it was a lot of pain, a lot of broken, a lot of generally awful things. He didn't know why, but that was the way it was.

"You don't get that, do you?" John's voice was quiet. The detective shook his head, even knowing that John couldn't see him. He didn't feel pain, not about John. It didn't hurt, not at all. He didn't feel like he was dying inside, so if love is a whole lot of pain, what he felt couldn't be love, because all he felt was _good_. He got a little thrill of pleasure when John proclaimed his deductions amazing, which of course they were. He missed him when he wasn't there but was always pleased when he came back. "You don't know how much it hurts, do you?"

"No," Sherlock confessed. "I don't. So it would seem I don't…"

"Feel the same?"

"Right," he whispered. Why did everything have to be so confusing? He was hurting now, because John was hurting. Was _that_ what John meant, or was it empathy? He decided there was only one way to find out (well, there were many ways, but this seemed the simplest solution to his sleep-deprived overworked brain) and put his hand on the good doctor's shoulder, turning him around so they were face to face. He bent down and kissed his flat mate, closing his eyes and shuddering when John started kissing him back.

He slid his hand to cup John's cheek, but pulled away to assess his situation. _Heart racing, breathing shallow, heat rising to my face..._ He looked at his other hand. It was shaking, why was it shaking? Putting that aside, he knew his physical reaction could be written off as attraction, so he began analyzing his mental condition. No pain. He did not hurt but rather felt like he had been shot up with something incredible, no drug he'd ever found before. _Final conclusions: physical reaction suggests arousal, mental state is coherent and painless. Evidence points away from love due to absence of suffering. A more amiable relationship is most plausible._

He let out a slight hum of understanding and went in for another kiss. He had worked out the feelings bit, which was nice, since he rarely enjoyed having to think about trivial things. Not that John was trivial; he was anything but, but even that didn't stop Sherlock from being irritated by too many emotions.

It seemed John mistranslated the hum as one of enjoyment and deepened the kiss, turning an experimental touching of lips to a full-on snog. Sherlock was surprised to note he was completely disinterested in ending their embrace, because (as he was also surprised to note) he was growing hard again. Arousal was not a constant threat to him, as it was to so many other men. It was rare he mustered the energy or inclination for such a thing, and in fact only bothered to get himself off once every few weeks or so, but John… John stirred up feelings he didn't know he had, playing him like the violin, knowing where to rest his fingers in such a way to play the most beautiful melody.

_Making music_, he reminded himself. He hadn't the practice for something slow and controlled, like a waltz, but perhaps a sonata…? He admitted, sonatas were not commonplace for a violin, but when did he ever act according to custom? When, for that matter, did John?

_Oh, if Mrs. Hudson ever finds out what transpired here tonight, she'll simply die_, he thought with a hint of amusement. He knew such couplings didn't bother her– there were married ones next door– but John had spent so much time trying to convince everyone he wasn't gay… Sherlock couldn't care less about his own reputation, but he wasn't going to defile John's, the truth being what it was.

_Stop it, stop it,_ he urged his brain, trying not to think. Under the usual circumstances he would never wish such a thing, but there had been one moment earlier in the night, when John had looked at him and smiled, in the middle of their… concerto, and there had been a surge of pleasure up his spine, and there wasn't a thought in his head but the sheer perfection of that moment… He wanted that again, to be one with John, no deductions, no thoughts of any kind, just pure _feeling_. Just John. He would ordinarily punch anyone who made him lose control like that, but what were friends for if not to push you beyond your comfort zone?

Just as he started to feel it again, the fuzziness in his cerebrum that preceded loss of voluntary motion, John tore away from him. Sherlock was left standing, eyes blurring and mouth slightly agape, trying to remember his own name. "J-John?" he stuttered. No matter what, he would never– _could_ never– forget John. There was a moment of _missing_ in Sherlock's mind, where he remembered having John's body weighing his down, and he missed it sorely. He missed the pressure of the doctor's bones on his (_John, you were always so down to Earth)_ like a phantom limb, still hurting even after it's gone.

"I can't _do_ this, Sherlock!" John cried, weaving his hands through his hair and tugging. "I can't just keep being your– your sex toy, to fool around with when you want to get off!"

"Why would you ever think…? You know you're more than that."

"Do I? Because I _told_ you how I feel, you _knew_ I'm weak, vulnerable–" his voice hitched on that word. "That I couldn't possibly resist you. You've made it quite clear about your feelings or lack thereof, so how could you pull me in like this?"

Sherlock swayed on his feet. How could John think he was a _thing_, to be used and put away when it wasn't wanted? How could he think Sherlock was _using_ him? He wanted so much to kiss him again, to lose himself, but John wouldn't have that. Didn't he _know_ Sherlock was only trying to make him feel good? He was hurting, he said, why wouldn't a kiss with the man he loved (the word caught in Sherlock's brain, snagged like cloth in a pricker bush) make the pain go away? Didn't he get the same rush, the same inexorable painlessness? _Why is he still hurting?_

"John," he said in a voice far too even for the maelstrom churning within him. "John, that's not what I… That is, I didn't…" He took a shuddering breath. Why was he so shaky? Was he ill? "John," he repeated, liking the sound of the name even in this serious moment, "I was not trying to hurt you. I thought– I thought you would feel better." His vocabulary was thoroughly limited, which only slightly concerned him.

He closed the distance between them and slid his hand down the doctor's chest. "I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured when John trembled at his touch. "I only want to make you feel good." The hand nimbly lowered John's zipper and popped the button open. He sunk to his knees.

"Sherlock, don't, please," John begged even as he rested a hand on the detective's curls.

"Don't what? Don't do this?" He slipped a hand into his flat mate's shorts, finding and stroking the length of him. "Or this?" He tugged his trousers down but continued his ministrations. "Or this?" He pushed his shorts down too, and time slowed. On some level Sherlock knew what he was doing; he was on his knees before John, stroking the older man's cock and licking his lips, in the early hours of the morning. On any other level he couldn't begin to rationalize this, but most of his brain seemed to be shutting down, starting (of course) with the frontal lobe, where rational thought took place. Only his limbic system seemed to be fully functional; emotions were winning the battle of rational versus irrational.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again in a soft, calm voice. "Just let me… let me make you happy."

John seemed to waver, but he couldn't resist Sherlock. He gave one curt nod and twisted his hand further into dark hair. Sherlock gave him an odd sort of grimace that he meant as a smile, parted his plush lips, leaned forward, and wrapped his mouth around the head of John's cock. John inhaled sharply, which Sherlock took as an encouraging sign. He licked along the length of the shaft, up one end and down the other, until he was back to where he started.

He pulled his head back just a bit to examine his subject (it was easier, thinking of it as one of his experiments), then stuck his tongue out to lick just the very tip, noting John's low groan. He slipped a hand between his own legs to tease himself. That was what he did, on occasion: brought himself to the brink of orgasm and stopped, waiting for the desperate throbbing to cease before going at it again. Once he had managed that for almost an hour.

He decided not to tease John, however, who was clearly just desperate for some friction, from the way his hips were moving. Sherlock swallowed his cock in one go, surprised he could manage it. Having almost no gag reflex helped, of course, but still the _size_…

He moved his mouth back until he was only sucking the head, using the hand that wasn't pleasuring himself to stroke John. He could tell the other man was close; his entire body was flushed, his breathing was loud and ragged, his moans were closer together, and the muscles in his thighs were twitching. Sherlock wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, how John could come so quickly, but suddenly there was a great flood of heat in his mouth and he didn't have to think about anything anymore.

John came with a strangled sob, his body wracked with pleasurable shivers, his hips thrusting forward of their own accord. The taste, Sherlock observed, wasn't entirely unpleasant. There was the taste of salt, of course, something dark and rich, earthy, and something that was unique to John, something he couldn't identify. He found he quite enjoyed the experience, and had to twist slender fingers, buried in his trousers, around the base of his own cock to keep from coming.

He stood fluidly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking down at the mess he had created in John, who was feebly trying to redress himself. "And how was that?" Desire had deepened the baritone of his voice further.

John's eyes widened, pupils blown. "Are you _joking_? That was– that was bloody brilliant, Sherlock."

The detective was pleased to hear the positive review on his skills. He was, as John knew, as of yet very inexperienced in sexual matters, but he hoped to remedy that soon. "I was hoping–" he started in a low voice, intending to explain to John that there must be some arrangement they could work out where they could be– what was the term?– "friends with benefits" or some such thing.

John suddenly took a deep breath, as though remembering a painful experience. "Sherlock, no," he said immediately, sounding horrified. "We shouldn't have– that wasn't– blimey, I _told _you we couldn't do this, and you've disobeyed me. We can't _live_ like this!"

Sherlock blinked. What in the name of God was he on about? "You didn't seem so concerned a few minutes ago, when my mouth was on your–"

"But that's exactly my _point_! I just said, ten minutes ago, we couldn't do this because I love you and you don't love me and it _hurts_. It hurts, Sherlock, which you don't understand! Yes, I quite enjoyed that, but I'm not going to let this become a regular thing, because–" He sighed sadly. "It's late. Things always seem different in the morning. Just… think about what I've said, all right?"

Think? What could Sherlock Holmes do if not _think_? He had _been_ thinking, about everything! He had weighed the pros and cons, debated with himself, considered all possible outcomes, and this seemed to be the most beneficial. _Beneficial for whom?_ John's voice said in his mind. _For you or for him_?

For once he had no answer. If what John wanted was to be left alone… Sherlock didn't have the heart (the use of that expression never seemed to apply before, because previously he had believed, as so many others did, he _had_ no heart) to deny John what he wanted, anything he wanted, even if the thought of going back to what they had before made Sherlock feel ill. Before he could find the words to voice this, John had pulled his trousers back on and shuffled back to his bedroom, softly shutting the door behind him.

"John," Sherlock said, knowing the other man couldn't hear him but needing to say the words aloud. "If all this confusion and pain and joy is just friendship, what does love feel like?"

There was no answer. He didn't expect one.

**Er, yes, well. I want your thoughts on this point: who, in your opinion, is worse off? John, convinced Sherlock can't and doesn't love him, or Sherlock, who doesn't even know what he's feeling but only knowing it's hurting?**


End file.
